


May Day

by LSupergirl



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3418748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSupergirl/pseuds/LSupergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A/U.  She catches his eye because she reminds him of a certain painting but reels him in with her unabashed enthusiasm for discounted chocolate.  A friendship evolves into something...more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

She leans slightly against the door of a yellow VW Beetle, golden hair streaming over her shoulders, evergreens visible in the distance. She might as well have stepped from the canvas of an Alex Colville painting. The differences from the painting in question (May Day, 1970, acrylic) consist of a black Canada Goose parka and a pair of fur-lined Sorels, a black bobble cap perched adorably over loose curls, skinny jeans, and a quirk of upturned lips as she peruses, he assumes, her grocery list. They make her _real_.

Killian watches her stride quickly toward the entrance, seemingly impervious to the slippery patches hidden beneath barely melting slush. He realizes he’s standing in the middle of the car park goggling like a prat only when the tires of a passing SUV spray him with icy muck. He hastily steps toward the entrance and finds himself sprawled flat on his back, wet coldness seeping into the seat of his jeans. Right. It’s to be one of _those_ days.

He always begins in the produce section. (There’s no sign of the lass, not that he’s looking.) He ticks items off his mental list while he cruises the aisles. He’s in the midst of an internal debate (fresh mint gel or whitening paste?) in the toothpaste aisle when he sees her pause by the prominent Godiva display. Her eyes widen in glee as she takes in the post-Valentine’s Day half-off Shopper’s Club discount on the various gold ballotins. She fist-pumps. _She actually fist-pumps_. She catches him peeking over the shelves of toothpaste and mouthwash and flushes prettily at his amused smile. He raises an eyebrow. _(He is so smooth.)_ She offers him a shrug and a self-deprecating smile as she selects the largest box for her cart. He’s officially smitten.

Through dumb luck (or some skillful mechanization on his part, but what’s the difference, eh?) he finds himself unloading his cart in the checkout aisle right behind her. He’d be lying if he said the sight of his 2% milk nestled right next to her skim on the conveyor belt doesn’t _do_ things to him. He catches her eye and grins as she helpfully places a plastic separator between their purchases.

“Cheers, love.”

Her eyes simultaneously soften and brighten. _How is that physically possible?_ “Seriously?” she groans, already laughing.

His brow wrinkles in confusion. “Pardon?”

“You, with the eyes and that accent. Are you for real?”

He deliberately leans in closer, noting with no small amount of satisfaction that the closer he gets, the higher the blush in her cheeks climbs. He lowers his voice to _this much_ above a whisper. “I think you’ll find that _all_ of my parts are quite real.”

She rolls her eyes, fighting back a smile, and turns her attention to the cashier. He takes advantage of her distraction to scope out her purchases. It’s a study in contradictions: mostly organic produce and herbs, bulk organic grains, free-range, organic meats, interspersed with a tub of Rocky Road, a box of instant hot chocolate, a spray can of whipped cream, an assortment of cookies, a few boxes of sugary cereals, and the box of chocolates.

He affects an air of nonchalance as his ears strain toward the conversation between the blonde and the cashier. He doesn’t know how he knows, but it’s absolutely plain as day that she is not the type to spill details of her personal life to a random stranger in the grocery store. The cashier, however, is blissfully oblivious. The cashier is an older motherly type who, having already assumed that the lass is buying the chocolate for herself, apparently can’t believe that such a lovely young woman is without a significant other, that she must buy her own box of chocolates _(poor little thing)_ , and if she can’t find a special someone then what hope is there for anyone? 

Killian smiles widely at the perfect opportunity fate has handed him. He’s not the type to abandon a damsel in distress. He sidles up and slings an arm around her suddenly rigid-with-tension shoulder. “I did, in fact, shower the lady with chocolates and roses, but the chocolates were gone nary a day later. My love is bloody _insatiable_ when it comes to chocolate.” _(He does not take advantage of the situation to lightly breathe in the scent of cinnamon and warmth and place a kiss to her temple.)_ He gestures to the sweets disappearing into the eco-friendly grocery bags.

He can actually _feel_ the exact moment her icy green stare snaps to his face (inappropriately, he thinks _you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry_ and dubs it her Hulk Face). Her eyes narrow, then turn to the cashier, a portrait of wide-eyed innocence. “It’s true, I just really like chocolate.” She slips out from under his arm and finishes bagging her groceries. “I’ll just wait outside for you to finish up, _darling_.” The last word positively drips with sarcasm. 

The cashier smiles dotingly. “So this is all together, then?” 

She looks up through her eyelashes and gives him a saccharine smile. “This dashing gent will pay.”

He covers his bark of laughter with a cough, accepting her challenge. “Absolutely.”

He emerges from the store and finds her leaning against the Beetle again. She scrutinizes him intently as he approaches, though he can’t tell this time what she is thinking. He stops just out of arm’s reach, tilts his head slightly, smiling, and just takes it all in.

Reluctantly, almost against her will, she starts to smile back. “Look, I know you were just trying to be nice, but that was really unnecessary. I’m not in the habit of justifying my actions to anyone, let alone misguided grocery store cashiers-”

He cuts her off before she can really get going. “I’m honored you suspect me of such noble intentions but the truth is, it was more for me than you, love.”

She pauses, surprised. “What the hell does that mean?”

He steps closer, invading her space again. “I merely seized the opportunity to learn more of the intriguing lass who has utterly captivated my attention.”

She arches her eyebrow. _Seriously?_ Pure skepticism. Again, clear as day.

“You’re the very likeness of a Colville. And then you fist-pumped.” He realizes he isn’t making sense. Strangely enough, her face brightens.

She looks at her Beetle and the evergreens. “As in Alex Colville?” She arranges her hair over her shoulders and leans against the car. “May Day. 1970.” 

He smiles warmly. “Precisely.”

***

Her name is Emma.

***

Grocery shopping sort of becomes their weekly thing. 8:15ish on Saturday mornings before it gets too crowded, but late enough for the shelves to be mostly stocked. At 8:15am, they earn very few glares as they amble down the aisles, carts pushed next to each other, unapologetically obstructing all traffic that attempts to flow around them. Those first few weeks they keep it casual, talking about their weeks, swapping a running commentary on the products on the shelves, the other patrons. It’s light, but it’s also _intimate_ , that she knows what kind of soap he uses and his preference of breakfast cereals. She gets a twisted surge of delight when she drags him down the feminine products aisle, because she can see him biting his tongue against inappropriate comments, and that is _so_ unlike him.

Killian has very definite opinions on their sugar intake _you’re just feeding the potential tumors, Swan_ , yet loads his cart with all manner of sodium-filled prepackaged food and frozen pizzas, justifying his purchases with the age-old _I rarely have time to cook a proper meal, and why bother? There’s only me_. To be fair, the man does load his cart with a decent amount of fresh fruits and vegetables.

Sometimes Henry accompanies her when he’s not spending the weekend at Regina’s. Killian and Henry together make her eye twitch, because they’re absolute _hellions_ , ganging up on her, racing each other down the aisles and doing tricks with their carts for God’s sake, which forces _her_ to be the responsible adult, the fun-sucker, when she would much rather join in the shenanigans, and _how is that fair?_

Sometimes Killian brings the y-jack, and they happily plug into one of their phones and wander the store lost in the joy of listening to music together. Many of their favorites overlap (Beatles, Queen, Arcade Fire, The National, and Counting Crows for the nostalgia), but he’s so much better at unearthing newer stuff she’s never heard of but falls in love with (Josh Ritter, George Ezra, The Districts, Hozier). 

After a while the small talk gives way to information gathering. He builds boats for a living, former Navy brat, brother in England. She briefly sketches out her lonely childhood and thieving teen runaway years, but speaks openly about the transformation to bad-ass bounty hunter and fully reformed sheriff. It’s always easier to talk about life after Henry found her. It’s terrifying and wonderful how natural it is to talk to him: forever the introvert, always on guard, her tongue loosens and the words just pour out of her around him. He learns more about her in a few months than most people learn in years.

Mostly, though, he makes her laugh. She loves the crinkles in the corner of his eyes when he smiles, and the way his voice drops with every ridiculous innuendo. He flirts outrageously with her. He never pushes her for more than this casual (becoming ever closer and deeper) friendship, but she suspects things could be very different if she allowed herself to take him seriously.

***

He absolutely does not drive around town sometimes, looking for the yellow Beetle. Storybrooke is quite a small town, and she is the sheriff. When he runs into her at Granny’s, or the Rabbit Hole, or the bakery, it’s pure coincidence. Simple as that.

***

She’s always happy when she runs into him unexpectedly, smiling that big, warm smile that makes her eyes sparkle.

***

Somehow they both happen to be at Granny’s every Wednesday morning, so of course it’s only natural that they should sit together. Henry is often there as well, and listens with rapt attention to Killian’s stories of places he’s lived and people he’s met. 

Emma and the lad drink identical mugs of hot chocolate, topped with clouds of whipped cream, and a dash of cinnamon, while he has his usual cuppa. They more often than not opt for chocolate chip pancakes, or French toast dripping in maple syrup, or the occasional warm bear claw with scrambled eggs. He bemoans the lack of beans, rashers, and black pudding, but ultimately rotates between three different kinds of omelettes with a side of hash browns and dry whole wheat toast or porridge and fresh fruit. 

He listens with genuine interest to Henry’s school stories and talk of fairytales and grand adventure before the boy dashes off to the school bus, backpack flying. Then he has precious time alone with Emma, content to share the same space for a little while more. They talk of books they’ve read, _The Walking Dead_ (they’re both obsessed), and tease each other mercilessly. Then she’s off to the station or wherever the latest investigation leads, and he to the docks. (He’d never set foot in, let alone frequented, this establishment until he’d spied the yellow Beetle parked curbside on his way to the docks one morning. Now he can’t imagine starting his Wednesdays any other way.)

***

They text frequently on Sunday nights, usually between the hours of nine and ten thirty, to “watch” their show together. They’re so busy texting they miss half of it and have to rewind to watch it properly. It’s much easier to just watch the damn show together, Emma points out, so that’s what they do. 

Henry is so disappointed to miss out on time with Killian (Emma refuses to allow a ten year old to watch such a graphic, violent, albeit brilliant show, reasoning he should be in bed by then anyway) that he comes over well before it starts to spend time with him. They slowly construct an entire world of model ships, the kind that float on water, yes, but also ones suspended by wire from the ceiling, real models and models from _Star Wars_ and _Firefly_ and Miyazaki films. Killian is gobsmacked by the sheer scope of his imagination and feels quite certain the lad is destined to share his creativity with the world.

The space between them on the couch gradually lessens, until the agreed upon position is Emma tucked into his side, his arm around her shoulder, her feet shoved under his thigh (because her feet are always cold and the man is like an electric blanket). If occasionally her head slides against his shoulder, and his falls against hers in return, well, it is late, after all, and they’ve been busy all week.

***

He snores (but only sometimes). It shouldn’t be cute but it is. Damn it.

***

She’s fallen in love with him and they haven’t even kissed yet. _What the hell_.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things progress. A warning for some saltier language.

She still doesn’t know how it happened. _Before_ , she was an adrenaline junkie, kicking ass and taking names, living the life of a strong independent woman, damn it. No attachments. No responsibilities to anyone or anything but herself. She ate when she was hungry. She slept when she was tired. When she had an _itch_ (so to speak), she scratched it (as quickly and anonymously as possible). If she needed a change of scenery, she moved. Everything she had was earned through her own blood, sweat, and tears. While she certainly wasn’t _singin’ in the rain, the hills are freaking alive_ happy, she was satisfied. It’s like loneliness was only a cloud passing over the sun, forcing her to acknowledge the chill before it inevitably passed. It was fine.

_Now_ she’s co-mothering the child she gave up when she was so young and uncertain, living the respectable life of a small town sheriff, so very attached (more than she ever thought possible, really) to the people who have become her family. There are girlfriends to gossip with over drinks, apartment leases with time measured in years (not months), holiday dinners with more than one place setting, and _fuck_ , the fact that holidays are _celebrated_ (anticipated, even) is huge. Now she’s the kind of person who walks into the local diner and is greeted by name. She has a _usual_ , for God’s sake.

All because of Henry.

Henry is, quite literally, the piece of herself she’d been missing. The almost painful love and constant worry over his well-being comes way more easily than she could have anticipated, like a decade’s worth of feelings is oozing out of her all at once. 

That’s maybe why she loves Killian. 

It’s like every drop of love she’s been pushing down and locking away for all those lonely years has suddenly been tapped, spilling over everything in its path.

(Well, that’s her story, anyway, and she’s sticking to it.)

_(Good one.)_

+++

He invites Emma and her boy down to the harbor to see his latest project. Henry enjoys wandering the boathouse, poring over every last centimeter and inspecting the craftsmanship with the same attention to detail he bestows on his own creations. It’s never long before his imagination takes flight, concocting tales of adventure on the high seas.

Killian and Henry become so absorbed in their play that he only notices she’s slipped out when she returns, Granny’s takeaway in hand. He’s momentarily speechless that she’s entrusted him with the care of her son, seemingly without concern.

Correctly interpreting his awestruck look, she confesses to vetting him immediately after that first encounter, strictly to ascertain the lack of criminal record or otherwise nefarious actions, of course. _What, you think I let just_ any _crazy man I’ve just met near my son?_ He's too amused to be offended, and her apology, in the form of a serve of coconut custard pie (his favorite) is sufficient.

They choose a bench on the dock with a spectacular view of the boats on the water. He huffs a small sigh of contentment; this is quite close to the perfect moment: the salt in the air, the sea before him, a full stomach, the sunlight reflecting from the surface of the water _just so_ , and people _(loved ones)_ to share it with.

Henry, sandwiched between him and Emma, seems to be of the same mind. Killian doesn’t miss the way the boy’s eyes dart between them, his gaze significant, a small smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

+++

She should be more concerned. Lately, every other word coming from Henry’s mouth is _Killian_. _Killian likes_ this and _Killian said_ that, and _do you think Killian ever_...

She understands. Killian is pretty fucking fantastic. But she owes it to Henry to be the voice of reason here.

“Henry.”

He looks up, hands still fiddling with Killian’s latest model (a flying pirate ship).

“Just...be careful not to get too attached. Killian’s our friend, but he may not always be around like he is now. He could meet someone, or I could meet someone, or he could go back to England, or something else could happen. You just never know.”

He rolls his eyes, but softens the gesture with the smile that follows.

“Okay, Mom.” A beat. “You like him. I can tell.”

“I like _you_ more.”

+++ 

Hiatuses are the worst. _The Walking Dead_ isn’t airing anything new, so just like that, her easy excuse for luring him over is a bust. Lucky for her, Killian is a man with a plan. _Let’s marathon the series! I know we’ve already watched it, love, but we haven’t watched it_ together. He smiles, full of hope, and she is such a _goner_.

+++

“Swan, no.”

“Stop being so _British_. Just because you’ve never experienced the wonder of- “

“Do you even know what manner of devilry is lurking within those godforsaken confections?”

“Kid, back me up.”

“I beg of you, consider the future health implications for the lad! As a proper mother, you ought to-”

_“Excuse me?_ Did you _seriously_ just say that?”

Henry looks from Killian, face a mask of stern righteousness (for a second, the facade slips and his eyes twinkle as if he’s _enjoying_ himself) to Emma, eyes dangerously narrowed (Hulk face _on_ ), a large box of half-off Easter candy clutched in her hand.

Eyes wide, he backs away and runs from the looming apocalypse.

+++

He waits for Henry at his bus stop. Emma is on the far side of town settling some matter of dispute, Regina in the midst of a council meeting. He’s honored to have earned enough trust from both women to act as caregiver in their stead. But that’s _nothing_ compared to the way he feels as Henry’s face positively lights up when he sees him. Killian shoulders the lad’s backpack and they head toward the apartment. 

Henry, noticing his sidelong glances, the habitual scratching behind his ear, stops walking and studies him shrewdly. “Just spit it out already, Killian.”

_Nothing for it, then._ It seems the lad has inherited his mother’s gift of reading people. “Right. Henry, would you have any objections if I-”

“You’re going to ask my mom out?”

“Aye.”

_“Finally!”_ He fist-pumps. Another inherited trait, it seems.

“She may not consent,” he warns.

“Oh, she _definitely_ will. You’ll see.”

They stop for an ice cream on the way home. He is the worst kind of hypocrite with all his lecturing of Emma about the dangers of copious amounts of sugar. “Not a word to your mother, yeah?” He nudges Henry with his elbow.

Henry, mid-slurp, simply salutes him.

+++

When Henry is with Regina, safe from the risk of being corrupted by their debauchery, it’s entirely possible that marathoning turns into a drinking game. With rum. It starts off harmlessly enough _(a shot every time Karl wanders off!)_ , but Emma draws the line when it becomes a matter of self-preservation _(a shot every time they kill a zombie!)_. After all, _someone_ has to sheriff in the morning. 

+++

He’s never been in her bedroom before, which is how he never noticed it. He is saddened he hasn’t yet been invited into her sleeping quarters under different circumstances but that’s neither here nor there.

He feels pleasantly warm and carefree, his extremities loose and his mouth even more so. 

He suspects the rum shots are to blame.

“Jones, what are you doing in here?” She is standing in the doorway, glass of water extended in offering.

His head bobs toward the painting on the wall facing her bed. “Just admiring your taste, Swan.” His head lolls back and forth as if the weight is too heavy for his neck to support. He is _drunk_.

She smothers a smile. Damn _adorable_ drunk. It’s only a print, obviously, but she’s had it matted and framed. It’s rare for an object to mean so much to her, but this one does. “Thanks. I could say the same to you. Not many men are smart enough to reference my favorite Colville while shamelessly flirting at the grocery store.”

“ _My_ flirting? What of your almost _indecent_ display of lust over a box of chocolate?”

“God, what are you even _talking_ about? All I did was put the damn thing in my cart.”

“It was the way you _did it_ , darling.” He licks his bottom lip slowly and shuffles closer, eyes focusing on her mouth. “It made me wonder what else you’d enjoy putting in your _cart_.”

“Your mind is a filthy place.”

“You’ve no idea.” He leans closer, close enough for a hint of rum and the warmth of his nearness to send a shivery tingle of anticipation zinging down her spine. She feels as if he is consuming all the air in the room. He bends his head, lips barely grazing her own. 

He stumbles, sloshing water everywhere. “I’m very drunk.”

She throws her head back and laughs, expelling nervous tension until only rational thought remains. _Really, Emma. What did you think was going to happen?_ She slings an arm around his waist and draws his arm over her shoulder, helping him to the living room. 

“And here I thought you could hold your liquor,” she teases.

“I can hold _many things_ , dearest. Perhaps someday you’ll see for yourself. Unless you require a demonstration now?”

“I think the only thing _you’ll_ be demonstrating is how you crash on a couch.”

He faceplants, words muffled. “As you wish.”

+++

It is very early in the morning and he is not in his bed. He is, however, warm and comfortable. _Hello_ , what’s that. Something is tickling his nose. The scent, though familiar, is one he is unaccustomed to having so near so soon upon waking. 

_Emma._

He very likely has the look of a man who has realized his dearest wish. He is holding Emma Swan in his arms, and by all accounts, she is unopposed to this state of affairs.

He doesn’t remember stretching out on her couch or propping his head on the Captain Hook throw pillow. Nor is there any recollection of why he now finds Emma nestled into his side (forehead grazing his chin, leg thrown over his, hand fisting his shirt, breasts pressed against his ribs) and not in her bed. Not that he minds.

He ought to extricate himself from under her but he fears that any movement will send her tumbling from her precarious position on the edge of the couch (his arm is anchoring her to his side) to the floor. _It would be bad form to disturb her_. He places a whispered kiss to her forehead, an infinitesimal press of lips to smooth skin. He intends to stand vigil, to better cherish this feeling of closeness, but his eyes are heavy.

He sleeps.

+++

The apartment is eerily silent on mornings that Henry stays with Regina. As much as she loves the kid, she forgets sometimes that she’s not in Boston, alone, anymore. 

She wakes all at once, a brief tightening of muscles followed quickly by release. She feels (rather than sees) him. _Definitely_ not _alone. God, they couldn’t be closer if she’d burrowed under his skin._ She’s mortified at the way she’s draped herself over him but she’d be lying if she said her hand didn’t wander over the flat plane of his stomach and meander back up to rest over his heart. She definitely does not nuzzle her cheek ever so slightly against the stubble of his jaw.

This is Killian. Her (breakfast companion, shopping buddy) good friend ( _best_ friend), Killian. She lets herself _really_ look at him now that _he’s_ not looking at _her_ with that laser intensity that sparks the heat inside of her. She _loves_ him.

_Old news, Emma._

She’s _wanted_ him since she met him all those months ago, after she made him pay for her groceries in a fit of temper and he referenced Colville and looked at her with those eyes and that scruff and that accent. (Technically accents can’t look but that thing is definitely armed and dangerous.) But she _loves_ him for all the moments since then.

She slides her hand up to cradle his cheek. (She does _not_ melt as he leans more firmly against her hand in his sleep.) She stretches forward. Her lips press chastely against the corner of his mouth. 

His eyes flicker open, startled.

“Good morning.” A whisper.

“Emma?” His lips turn up at the corners, an adorable, rumpled sort of smile.

“I think we should go on a date.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, then relax. _“About bloody time.”_

She swats at his shoulder. “Shut up.”

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the painting here: http://www.bertc.com/subfive/g155/colville20.htm.


End file.
